


I'm Coming Home to You

by batch_of_amortentia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Home, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batch_of_amortentia/pseuds/batch_of_amortentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up to a violin playing, though he thinks it's just his mind playing tricks.<br/>Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Coming Home to You

Loneliness was John’s enemy. He’d forgotten how it was living alone, the absence of another presence. Sure, Sherlock was usually quiet when thinking and not being an obnoxious prick, but the company was something, John sadly realized, he took for granted. John couldn’t return to the 221B. He just couldn’t. Memories would flood back to him and it would just be too much to handle. His best friend…gone.

Mrs. Hudson had sorted everything out. On the last day of boxing up John had went to see the flat one more time. He’d asked Mrs. Hudson to be alone as he walked around. He remembered the furniture layout perfectly, exactly where Sherlock would lay thinking. Up where the skull Sherlock so dearly loved used to sit. He placed his fingers on the wall over the spray paint, the bullet holes still there, and closed his eyes. So many cases solved in the small space of 221B. So many snarky comments spoken here. These walls held together Sherlock’s life and John was leaving it. He just couldn’t stand walking around the flat without him there.

Lately he’d begun to imagine things, unrealistic things-evidence that his mind has slowly slipped from his grasp. Like going grocery shopping and at check out realizing he’d gotten a certain type of crisps Sherlock favored or he would wake up imagining a violin playing only to hear silence or the times he would start saying things out loud that began with Sherlock’s name and then choke on his words. He would quickly glance at his favorite armchair, the one thing that was retrieved from 221B, and imagine dark curls only to double take and see it was just a play on his mind.

He had weekly sessions with his psychiatrist, which didn’t help at all. It was mostly an excuse to talk to another person, when John did actually talk. She would pry too much, ask deep questions, ones John didn’t and sometimes couldn’t answer. He continually left feeling empty and sad but always returned for the next appointment.

John woke up with a start. He could hear it- a violin was playing, it’s soft music echoing through his small apartment.

"Stop it, stop it John!” He banged his head with his hands, stifling a cry. The music’s momentum increased, the piece spiraling faster in its intensity. John got up from the bed to go around his apartment, knowing that once his eyes saw that the place was empty, the music in his mind would stop.

The tile was cold under his bare feet as he limped to his den. Once Sherlock had left, he was back on his cane, for Sherlock had been his crutch, metaphorically speaking. It was early morning, the sunrise was casting light around the hallway. As he reached the den he saw it. No, he saw _him_.

“S-Sherlock?” He cried, unbelieving. The consulting detective was smiling sideways, his blue eyes flickering as his hands held the violin, which was still being played with long strokes of the bow.

Sherlock could feel the grief through John’s voice without it being displayed evidently on his face. By the look of his place he could tell he’d been living here for quite awhile, and rarely went out. The bags under his eyes screamed of fitful sleep even though it’s been about three years since John had seen him- more than enough time to get over the false lie of his death, or so he thought. His clothes hung form his thin frame and he shook at the sight of Sherlock.

John placed a hand on the wall, his knees growing weak. How far had his mind gone? He rubbed his eyes only to open them and see the same scene. “No..no no no no _NO_! It’s not real. Wake up! Wake up! God damn it John!” He picked up the nearest thing in arms reach- his tea cup on the side table- and threw it at the imaginary Sherlock who sidestepped it, the tea cup crashing into the wall.

“John.” Sherlock said, voice full of sympathy, bow and violin at his side. It was a soft, cautious tone, one Sherlock used to talk to family members who had lost a loved one. 

“No! You’re not real. You’re dead. You’re-“ He choked, the last word coming out as a cracked whisper, ”- _dead_.”  
“John.” Sherlock stepped further.

“No-no-no! Stay right where you are. Right where you are!” He sunk to his knees, tears forming in his eyes. His back against the wall the only support he had as his world spun before his eyes. “It’s not real. It’s not real. _It's not real_!” He muttered and rocked back and forth closing his eyes shut.

“John, I’m sorry.”

A hand was on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry John.”

John cracked open his eyes. Tears were streaming down his cheek and he was taking rattling breaths. He slowly stood up, back to the wall as support and crashed into Sherlock. It was a startling hug, one that contained all John’s pent up grief, the years of numbing pain and worrying, wondering why it was Sherlock who had met his death instead of him, worrying about how in the world was he to continue his life. He placed his head into Sherlock’s neck and didn’t want to let go.

“I’m so sorry.” Sherlock was rooting John with an equal amount of force he had bent down to embrace him.

“You’re not real.” John muttered. Sherlock pulled away from him, held him at arms length, to look him directly into his eyes.

“I’m back, John, I’m back. And I am as real as one can get.” John nodded and pulled Sherlock into another bruising hug. John sobbed in Sherlock’s arms.

“You’re back.” He whispered into Sherlock’s ear, tears rolling down into Sherlock’s curls. “Three years Sherlock, _three_ fucking _years_.”

“I know, John. I know.”

“I hate you Sherlock. I really, really do.” He choked out. Tightening his hug he drew Sherlock closer. “I’ve missed you… _so_ … _much_.”

With another shuddering breath, he continued. “It hurt, Sherlock. It really hurt.”

Sherlock shushed him as they held onto one another in a deep embrace.

It would be awhile to make John stable again. Sherlock was sure that John wouldn’t let him out of his line of vision for very long, probably follow him everywhere no matter the circumstance. He predicted that John would walk into Sherlock’s room in the middle of the night just to make sure he was actually there. In fact, John would probably unconsciously check on Sherlock many times before he started to believe he was actually back. But he didn’t care, he didn’t care at all.

He had John. He was back-

_He was home._


End file.
